


Before He Climbed Into a Wheelbarrow for Someone Else to Drop

by Montax



Category: The Last of Us
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21612169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Montax/pseuds/Montax
Summary: Abel (O/C), Frank, and Maria traverse the Jackson County wilderness to bury Maria's sister, Abel's Mother.This story was written after months of obsessing on the execution of the storytelling at Naughty Dog. This story, on and off, took me about a year to tell, and I've accepted that it will need at some point be shared with the rest of the community.It doesn't feature major characters, because I am keen on letting them have their own story. I just want to play in the world.





	Before He Climbed Into a Wheelbarrow for Someone Else to Drop

Against the night, a small, yellow flashlight beam clicked to life, casting itself among book leaves thickened with reinforced cardboard. Tucked in the cavernous dark of barracks, the light revealed a noonday sun over a cow. The cow stood tall on her hind legs, blissfully sniffing a plucked daisy in her right hoof. Watching her, grinning sheep and happy hens and traipsing trout and silly salmon poked their heads over the bend of the hill and the river. Above her were great big words, written white, as clouds.

From the dark, a weathered finger followed large words written across the sky, tapping out the syllables on the page as it passed. A heavy, soft voice whispered them aloud. “The cow says, ‘Moo!’”

A smaller, darker finger tucked itself beneath the palm of the first. It mimicked the larger one. So, too, a smaller and thinner voice spoke with great effort.“The cow...says...moo?”

“Good, Abel,” whispered the older voice. Somewhere was the creaking of spring mattresses. “Can you point to the cow?”

Abel, the smaller finger, hesitated; then, with noonday gusto, pointed at the bright yellow daisy. “Cow!” Abel shouted.

A grunt and a rumbling of deep inhales banished the older hand from the light and over Abel’s mouth. “ _ Shhh! _ ” Abel’s Mother hushed. “Uncles and Aunties are sleeping.”

She removed her hand from his mouth. Abel giggled. “They’re tired,” he whispered, as if in on a secret. 

“That’s right.  _ Shh…”  _ Abel’s Mother put a nearly invisible finger to her lips.

“ _ Ssssssssss!”  _ Abel imitated, then giggled again. 

“Okay, Sweetheart.” She turned back to the book and pointed back to the daisy. “That’s a flower, remember?”

“A frower?” He repeated.

“That’s right. Remember those flowers you got for Mommy today?” Abel’s mother cooed. 

“I picked them!” Abel exclaimed, remembering with abandon.

“ _ Shhhhh!” _ She pounced on the noise. More rumbling, and a growl.

“Sssss!” He mimicked her.

“That’s right,” She continued. “Mommy loved them very much. They’re my favorite. We put them in water, and they will be waiting for us in the morning, remember?”

Across the room, a small bouquet of daisies, daffodils, and lavender crowded an old spaghetti tin, the promise of water the tin marigold red. Abel’s eyes grew wide as he scanned the dark for them, the glow of the flashlight swallowed up in his eyes like the void of magic 8-balls.

“The water will keep them alive.” She said, except that wasn’t very true. “Now, let’s hurry and finish this story so we can get to bed.”

“Okay, Mommy,” Abel returned to the book, his little hands heavy on the pages.

“The pig says, “Oink!’” Abel’s Mother spoke lowly.

“The pig says… oink!” Abel repeated, concentrating.

“The dog says, ‘Woof!’” She continued.

“The dog...says...woof.” He followed her. 

“The cat says, ‘Meow!’” She settled in the timbre. 

“The cat says, meow!” He meowed, flourishing. 

“Very good, Abel!” She squeezed him. “You’re reading so well!”

“Thanks, Mommy,” He said, he began to squirm, but let it slide.

She turned the page again and gave a small gasp. “Look, Abel!”

On the page was a lion, tall, proud, on two legs, chest puffed out.

“IT’S A LI--!” Abel shouted. His mother clasped shut his mouth. In the shadow, one dark, familiar growl rumbled. Abel and his mother froze as if turned to stone. Abel began to whimper.

“It’s okay,” she cooed, taking her hand off his mouth and placing it around his shoulder. She pulled him in, and he melted into her fleece sweater. “It’s okay. Just need to be softer okay?  _ shh…”  _ she comforted him now. The rumbling subsided as a man fell deeper into sleep. A man she knew.

She turned back to her son. “Do you know what lions do?!” She whispered. 

Abel looked up at her. 

“ _They like to_ _roar,_ ” She said. And she gave a roar, a flimsy and shadowy hiss, like a gas stove. 

“ _ Rooaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrr,”  _ Abel mimicked his mother, hissing into her chest.  __

“My goodness, what a mighty roar you have!” Her lips curled into a smile. The flashlight flung its beam upwards to her visage, shadow catching on the crooked frame of her nose and wisps of golden hair. Abel felt a small fear but ignored it.

“ _ Rooooooaaaaaaar, _ ” she said again, her breath washing over him. 

“ _ Rooooooaaaaaar,” _ he felt his eyes grow heavy. 

_ Rooooaaaaaarrr,  _ she went again, and at some point, the light went out. 

_ Rooaaaarrr,  _ went Abel’s lungs, pulling in the sweet scent. It set within him, corked for another day.

* * *

“ _GOD!”_ The crow’s cry rushed upon the wind, buffeting and billowing through fallen leaves, until collapsing at Abel’s ratty boots and waxy ears. Abel paused, his right arm raised and armed with a river stone the size of a clementine. He glanced over his opposite shoulder towards a descending valley, crowded with orange and turning leaves jostling against distant purple mountain shadows and blue evergreens. He listened. The wind let out sighed, as one does for the dead. It would be one of the last good days of September. 

Abel returned his work, cocking his elbow and hammering a sign to the soft tree bark: B-WAR WILL SHOOT. Effective for anyone who happened this far off of the Jackson County Trail.  _ Too many people in this fuckin world _ , he thought.

Done soon enough, he picked up his parka off a branch and gave another errant glance to the world at his left, quiet and almost serene. Abel wouldn’t be fooled: wilderness and wild things always lurked, and the day of death could come even in a quiet spring. He turned his back, slipped the river stone into his pouch, and headed up the trail towards the stained, rectangular model home with torn screen doors. His day was done: all he needed now was another can of peaches, and he would warm up the last of his baked beans. His little slice of heaven. 

Abel slept well into the next morning, his back propped against a crook in the kitchen. His parka doubled as his blanket. There was a draft in the house. 

Eventually, his own light snoring woke him. He uncrossed his arms and legs, the barrel of his rifle sliding from the sheath of his armpit. He sniffed it, then made a face; it reeked. Not two feet in front were his can of beans, colder than stone. Abel got to his feet, grunting and popping. 

Everything looked the same, down to the garbage pile waiting to be burned. The scent of animal urine that hung in the air, ‘same as always. He checked the cupboards: all three cans of peaches were there, along with the box of matches. He checked the box: one book with 3 matches left, and two rifle rounds. He checked under the sink: one bottle of whiskey, about 1/8th full. No visitors. Good. 

Abel lingered before checking his traps. He turned back to his can of beans, and rather than start another fire, he stuck a spoonful into his mouth. Sweet, tangy and thick as they were cold, filling his mouth as he spread them to every cranny within his tongue. Better than peaches.

He washed his breakfast down with a swig of his whiskey and rubbed his gums with his tongue. The sun was high: the world outside had grown bright. Abel would need to at least check his traps today; see what the screaming and howling had left for him the night before. 

Abel grabbed his rifle, a single round in the chamber. He did a quick count: his parka had three river stones and a slingshot in its pockets; his camper bag had rags and a roll of duct tape and a mostly splintering fire ax. Then he pushed the front door open with one hand, his rifle in the other. 

The night before, metal jaws snapped shut and the cries of a trespasser with a caught leg ripped Abel from sleep. The sound reached him from down the hillside, much further away than it sounded: one of Abel’s outermost traps. Abel sat up soundlessly from his small cot on the far side of the living room. He drew one of the curtains back, just enough, to look out the window into the void, moonless dark. 

The cries came from Abel’s side of the river, loud and hoarse enough for him to hold his breath and listen. There was no cry for help: the voice was probably alone. Abel crossed to the kitchen, holding up on the kitchen floor. His fingers found his way to his rifle, and he drew it close, for security.

The agony wouldn’t subside for some time, though softer now was the echo. “Fuck! Augh…” Then panting and whimpering. Abel began to think the trespasser might be closer than he originally thought. He covered his ears. 

Soon came the familiar sound of gnashing teeth and trampling footsteps tearing through the wild. Infected were gonna swarm him. The pain roused to panic, then cries of resistance and despair before falling, failing the stranger as he succumbed to the lurking horrors. Boogeymen that were still boogeymen in the daylight. 

Cacophony faded to quieter snarling and gnashing, painful sounds of a different kind. Snarling that followed Abel to a fitful sleep, and well past dawn.

It was a little way before he reached the first infected, strung upside down by a rope and counter-weight. It hung limp, blacked out from spending all night swinging. Abel set down the rifle, took out his ax, and caught it by the neck. Three good swings and its head came off without too much ruckus. He lowered the body and checked it. There was nothing there.

When Abel first left the Dam, he was convinced he would become an infected in a week; three summers later, maybe he still might. Some rumors with the kids his age were that people got it from wandering outside, although whenever they asked any adults, they said not to ask such dangerous questions, and to not go outside the Dam without an adult. Three years later, Abel still had his wits, though he haunted the wilds, just the same. 

The second infected had blood on its mouth, and what looked like bone growing out of its nose, covering its eyes and leaving it blind. It had been caught in a bear trap. Abel heard it before he saw it; it had started flailing long before Abel was in range, but it wasn’t going anywhere. Abel returned to his rounds. He’d be back.

Eventually, he came upon the trespasser, or what was left of him. The infected found his eyes and gouged them out. His chest had been pried open and his right lung devoured. His bowl snaked from him, limp in the sunlight. Abel set down his bag, covered his nose, and got to work, first undoing the trap, then picking and poking through the rags of clothing on the body.

He had a revolver. Abel checked: no bullets. He set it aside. Perversely, Abel took note of the hip bones, sculpted from marble about 4 inches from blooming entrails. Abel felt a passing itch but ignored it as he caught the glint of a metal clip in the dead man’s pocket. Abel dug and pulled out a knife, a small engraving on the side: “The next time you kill something, cook it up and bring it home.--Mom”

_ Mom? _ Abel could recognize that word almost immediately; the others took too much work to sound out. Abel turned back towards the mangled face and squinted: he  _ could _ be from the Dam. Back there, most of them had moms assigned to them. Abel had one: blonde, with a crooked nose. 

He had militia tags on him, the name reading, “Mikaya Willis,” on the backside of a small X: the fireflies symbol. Abel chuckled, pocketing the metal tags with the knife. _ Less fools on the earth, more food in the belly. _ He barely registered the gnashing behind him in time. 

Abel spun around with both his hands clasped into a singular fist, connecting with the jaw of an infected mid-lunge. It tumbled over, and Abel saw that this one used to be a woman, judging by the soiled tracksuit. She scrambled back onto her feet, one milk-white eye stalking him while bone plates that tore through her skin covered the other. 

Abel dove for his pack, the ax secure in the loop. She reached for him and he gave a kick. His heel shot past, and she hooked onto his ankle and began to climb on top of him. She had him. Fumbling, Abel grabbed the pack in both hands and thrust it unto her face, bracing between them. He kicked himself loose swung the pack and scrambled on top of her, pressing the pack onto her face, smothering her. What now? What to use?  _ The knife!  _ He thought. It was in his pocket! But he couldn’t take his hands off.

He put all of his weight forward onto his bag. Her hands flailed about, reaching for him, digging into his shoulders. He pried into the space between her arms and his with his knee, pinning down her bicep. The hand on his other shoulder tightened, but he only needed one. He took his free hand, reaching in, and unsheathed the blade. He ran it through three times through her: descending thrusts, down to the soft tissue of solar plexus, where he tested the knife’s teeth by tearing zagging lines of flesh. He stopped shortly after, his breathing heavy. It was dead. There was no more movement in the forest. 

He looked back to Mangled Mikaya, who hadn’t moved. His sun-baked visage managed to pull back into the beginnings of a ghoulish smile. Abel sneered.

Abel rearmed his trap and tossed both the infected and Mikaya into the river. He counted his spoils: he had found two more rounds of ammo for the revolver, the knife, dog tags, and a bottle of moonshine. He sniffed, then swigged the drink, then sputtered. Just in time. Now, all he had to do was take care of the last infected, and he would think about dinner.

He retraced his steps until he came back to the trap. The infected was there, in pieces; it had been quartered, its limbs scattered around it. 

“Well, hello, Son,” a voice from the brush said.

Abel took aim with his new revolver. Sturdy, rancher-style boots stepped out from the brush, and a towering, rolled-sleeved man emerged from the wild, gripping his hatchet by its middle neck. He waved his three free fingers. “Easy now, it’s just me.” He said. The blade sported the smeared leftovers of its handiwork. 

Abel gestured to the infected.

“That’d be me too,” Tommy fished a rag and wiped the hatchet clean. “Figured I’d save you the trouble.”

“Much obliged.” Abel chewed his tongue as he said it. He had by now remembered who it was: Tommy, though aged by three rains and winters.

Tommy put his rag away. “You planning on using that thing?”

Abel looked, then lowered the revolver. He did not move.

Tommy sheathed his hatchet, then waited. Then he clicked his teeth. “Saw your sign,” he said. “It’s--”

“What are you doing here, Uncle Tommy?”

Tommy shifted his weight, annoyed. “I’m looking for Mikaya. You see him?”

“Who?” Abel crossed his arms, he shifted his gaze in the direction of the river.

“Mikaya. Don’t play dumb. I sent him this way.”

“Well, he ain’t here.”

“No shit, I see that. So you wouldn’t know where he’s been off to?”

Abel said, “No one’s knocked on my door since the sign went up.”

Tommy stared a second more, then broke his gaze. “Dammit,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his rough face. “He must’ve skipped the place.” 

“Why’d you send him here anyway?” Abel asked, setting down by the trap. He took off his bag.

“He was on his way to the militia,” Tommy said. “I asked him to stop by your place on the way and send you a message.” 

“Well, what do you know?” Abel grunted. “People just leave Jackson now, huh?”

“He was an exception. Just like you.”

Tommy paused, waiting for Abel to say something. Abel fiddled with the jaws. “What’s this about a message?” 

“Mikaya was supposed to tell you...that your sentence is up.”

Abel’s hands slipped. The trap chomping at the air in front of his face. 

“Abel?!”

“I’m okay!” Abel answer reflexively. He turned back to Tommy. “What?”

Tommy shuffled his feet. “You can come home now.”

Abel looked at him, then went back to his trap. 

“Abel?” Tommy asked.

“Five winters.”

Tommy didn’t respond.

“I’ve got five winters,” Abel recounted bitterly. “Stop bullshitting me,” he added under his breath.

“We need you back home,” Tommy insisted. 

“That’s too bad.”

Tommy scowled, “Don’t test me, boy.”

“The last time I came by just about everybody and their mama had a gun to my face! You remember that?”

“Things are different now.”

“Bullshit,” Abel reset the trap. He stood, looking at Tommy like he wanted to slap him. But something told him Tommy wouldn’t fight back. “Now what’s wrong with you?”

Tommy crossed his arms. “We was raided, about three days ago. Did you know anything about that?”

“You think I had something to do it?”

“No, it’s just that--” Tommy cleared his throat. “Some things happened. And uh...and you’re needed. To bury her.”

Tommy watched as lines on Abel’s face hardened, then softened, then drooped. “Now why you have to go and tell me some shit like that?” Abel said his voice splintering. 

“No spared feelings were gonna bury her for you,” Tommy said softly.

Abel took a sharp wet inhale, then a wetter exhale. Tommy took a step towards him. “That’s far enough,” Abel croaked before turning away.

Tommy cleared his throat again, trying to dislodge the lump that had set in it. “Maria, she--she asked that you--”

“--Can’t you do it?” Abel groaned as he set down, rummaging through his bag.

“In-Laws don’t bury In-Laws,” Tommy clenched his fist. “Not when there are men in the family to do it. There ain’t gonna be a funeral if you ain’t there.”

Abel got up again, leaning back until he teetered on his toes. “Abel?” said Tommy.

“I’m praying, shut up,” Abel said evenly, tears beginning to pool in his deep-set eyes before running down along his temples. His hands were on his hips, and his eyes closed. He listened for her in the sun. A breeze blew through the canopy, listless. The day was colder, the sunlight snipped by the razor shadows of yellowing leaves.  _ There is nothing left of her on earth, _ they said. “How long do I have?” 

“‘Til tomorrow morning. We throw her in the river after that, if there’s not gonna be a burial.”

Abel shook his head.

“You gonna be there?”

With a hand, he waved Tommy begone, his eyes still closed. Tommy let out a sigh and left. Abel remembered the dead man’s sigh from yesterday, how it came to him in the afternoon light on what would be the last good day in September. Eventually, he would open his eyes again, his chest heaving. He picked up his bag, fished out Mikaya’s moonshine, and took a swig. It stung. He moaned and took another.  _ Amen _ .

* * *

Atop the Jackson County Dam, dawn came with a thick mourning shroud of clouds. Tommy looked on from atop the Dam catwalk, staring out to the trail. Before him were the evergreens. Along and away, the seasonals, waning, broad-leafed, and soon, bare. What was green now would stay green; the rest would yellow and die and succumb to the snow. He leaned on the railing, then stood upright again, then looked up at the clouds. During the fall and winter months, he would normally have to worry about rations and chill, stomachs and body heat. Most of the infected would either freeze or come close enough to pick off, but there was still at least 60 days before he could take refuge in that cold comfort, and his camp was still burying its dead.

“Tommy?” A voice called from behind. Tommy turned and looked down the other side of the railing, a small gathering of observers looked up to him. “Anything?”

“Nothing yet,” said Tommy. “What time is it?”

Everyone looked at the one member with a watch. 

“Half-past six, if it don’t skip again.” 

“How much longer do we wanna wait?” Another asked. 

“Ask me again in five minutes.” Tommy turned away. He had been saying that since they woke and found him perched up there. He went back to staring at the empty road. 

Maria climbed the walkway, two coffee tins in hand. She stared at it: the open and heavy sky, the trees all gesturing skyward, and the river that passed through the dam. “What are you looking for?”

“A runaway,” he sighed. “Hoping that he just might run back home.”

Maria snickered. “You’ll believe that boy until he puts a bullet in your back.”

“You say it like we didn’t take something from him,” Tommy didn’t look at her. He drank his coffee.

“He’s got his life. That’s more than most,” She shrugged. Abel shot a look at her, the echo of patting dirt over holes still fresh in his ears. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. She grew tender. “That’s not what I meant. Ness was his mother, just as much as my sister. And things are certainly quieter with Jack out to pasture. But Abel… that boy is stained. You can see it in him. He’s stained and getting him out of here was the best thing for her.” 

“‘And getting him back to see her is the best thing for him,’” said Tommy. “Weren’t those your words?”

Maria chuckled, her back to the railing. “ _ Now _ you listen to me.”

“I’ve got my ways.” Tommy swallowed the last of his cup and handed it back to her, “Thanks.” He leaned in, embracing her. “I wanna wait another hour.”

Maria leaned back, looked at him, and pursed her lips. “I hope he gets it.”

“Gets what?”

“Whatever it is that keeps you hoping.”

“We’re all killers, Maria.” 

“Ain’t none of us killed our Daddys.”

She broke the embrace and left, the empty tin in her hands. Tommy turned back to the road and settled in, when Abel came round the bend. 

* * *

The Dam’s heavy, silo doors drew open for Abel. He walked in with a slight hunch and his hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. Tommy and Maria waited inside, a small gathering beside them. 

“Hey, Son,” Tommy greeted. He broke away, marching towards him. 

“Hey.” Abel said. Tommy embraced him. Abel’s body went rigid; they broke the embrace.“Hey, Auntie,” he called to Maria.  
“Abel,” she nodded, staying behind. A version of Abel’s mother stared back at him, her back was erect. She chewed on the name bitterly. Her face, fashioned of stone, told Abel to keep a respectable distance, shadows cast along the bridge of her nose and eyes.

Abel looked back towards the trail; the twin doors clambered shut behind him. “Hunters?” He asked Tommy. 

“They came in the middle of night from the mountainside,” Tommy sighed. The two of them headed towards Maria. “They took out the watch before anyone could sound the alarm. Lost around twenty. Everyone who could hold a gun, did.” 

“And...Ness,” Abel stumbled over the name. 

“Your mother was in the barracks, same as usual.” 

“What was she doing here and not in Jackson?”

“She couldn’t be away,” Tommy answered. “I’m guessing she didn’t want to miss it, in case things changed.”

“Some people never change,” Maria added as they neared crossing over to her husband. Abel caught a chill wind that passed between them.

“She’s this way,” Tommy gestured. He passed in between them. Abel followed. The company splintered off to tasks. Maria remained. 

Abel’s mother was in a unit on the far side of the settlement, up the stairs, to a landing, to more stairs. Abel trailed behind Tommy, catching the glares of men along the catwalk above him. The lines between the sky and the wall left them dark as crows. They climbed the stairs, Abel a flight behind Tommy. The catwalk made his steps feel heavy, like fat drippings of rain from tin roofs. 

Tommy stopped in front of a door. “She’s in here,” he said. “Don’t have a freezer, but it’s pretty cold. We figured it might help preserve everything until you got here. “

Abel nodded, the lump in his throat too heavy to make a sound.

“She, uh… she might look pretty bad,” Tommy hesitated. “We would’ve preferred to bury her yesterday, but…”

Abel rubbed and pinched his face. 

“I reckon you want to get this over with.”

“Just open the door,” said Abel: the sting of moonshine and whiskey in his stomach, neck, and face. He was still not numb, and he was without patience. 

Tommy opened the door. It screeched, battering the ears, the scent of death assaulting the nostrils. Abel’s stomach flopped inside him. He regained his balance, and headed in. Tommy didn’t follow: Maria was coming up. 

His mother’s face had sunken in, her belly was distended, her scalp visible through the wisps of hair. She was gone; just a husk for him clean up. On the far side of the room was a wheelbarrow--probably used to bring her up. The room was indeed cooler than the outside; it was not cold enough. 

Abel approached. They made it look like she was sleeping: She was covered with a blanket, a pillow under her head. Someone lit candles and those candles burned out, leaving the wax to run and drip and congeal into pools into the room. Paper notes sat in a box next to her. He opened one, then cast them aside. He couldn’t read their handwriting--children had come and left. He was the last one here. 

Abel’s knees felt heavy, and his stomach wouldn’t settle, and his head hurt. He lowered himself onto the ground, leaning against what looked like a cabinet. Everything in him was stale and rusted, like marigold blooms strangling daisies in tin vases of bad water. He swallowed his saliva. 

The door hadn’t closed. Maria peered in, saw Abel, and hung back. She set another mug down and handed Tommy the hunting rifle she slung over her shoulder. He took it with a nod. He leaned against the frame looking at his wife. She had survived. She was tired. She knew from a glance what was wrong with the boy. 

Maria held the mug, but didn’t go in. “Hey, Abe,” she said suddenly. “I, uh, I got something for you.”

They heard him get up. He came between them. Maria handed him the coffee.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. He looked at Tommy and saw the barrel of the rifle.

“That aint for you,” Maria said. “We found a spot beyond a Dam, so when you’re ready, we’ll be ready.”

Abel nodded, taking a gulp. “I’m ready now.”

Maria and Tommy exchanged looks. “Now?” She asked. 

“Let me just finish this and we can get going.” Abel took another gulp. He headed inside. Maria gave Tommy a hard stare. Tommy hung low his head. She left, thundering and storming down the stairs. 

Abel swept the blanket off his mother, the box of notes crashing to the floor. He lined the wheelbarrow with it, turning the cold metal lining into something like a womb. He placed the pillow between the two handlebars, then turned to lift his mother. 

He had dragged and lifted dead and decaying bodies out of his way in the three years beyond Jackson and the dam; they all were simple, dead things. But his mother was the heaviest, her distended belly rigid and tight, a bullet hole in her neck. She was heavy and filled with gas like Abel couldn’t prepare for. He struggled to bend, move, and lift her still limbs into the cradle he had made, and when he succeeded, it could not hold all of her, her weathered hands and feet dangling out both sides like a squirming, fussy child. He strained to lift her up, then rolled the wheelbarrow out like a stroller. 

Tommy awaited him. “We’ll have to go down the way we came,” he said. “Elevator’s busted.”

“Down the stairs?”

“That’s what I said. Don’t you worry none. I’ll help get her down.” 

Abel looked down to the stairway. More men had gathered. Faces that might be familiar, although the names certainly wouldn’t be. He pushed the wheelbarrow the way Tommy pointed. 

At the first step, the wheelbarrow gave a lurch, yanking Abel forward. Tommy moved in front of him. “Don’t touch her!” Abel barked.

Tommy looked at him, his look between insult and injury. 

“I got it,” Abel muttered. He took another step, the wheelbarrow gave a jolt, and he was at the first step, his mother between him and the fourth step. He took his first step down. Her blanket began to slide, and her with it. Abel reached for her, and the wheelbarrow tugged him off his feet. Abel’s mother tugged him down all eight stairs, far enough to visit hell and back. The wheelbarrow overturned, leaving both her and him face down. 

He lay there, the cool and scraping metal against his face. He watched a gaggle of men, some sneering, some shaking their heads.

“ _ Jesus _ , Abe!” Tommy raced past him down the steps. He turned over Abel’s mother. “You lost your damn mind?”

“I know.”

“Help me get her up before Maria sees this shit.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Abel grunted as he uprighted the wheelbarrow.

“What is this, huh?” Maria’s voice cut through space like a gunshot. Everyone turned to her. Maria fists were tight, marching in between Tommy, Abel and the procession. “Don’t y’all have work to get to? Break it up!”

The men hurried about their business.

“What the  _ fuck _ , Tommy?” 

“I know, he said--”

“This is how you treat your mother?” Maria turned on Abel. “You fucking push her down  _ the stairs _ ?”

“Shut up, Bitch!” Abel spat. 

“ _ Hey _ !” Tommy barked. He moved on Abel when Maria’s hand barred him across the chest.

Maria moved on Abel, right in his face. “You get one free punch; After that, I will fuck you up.” 

Abel turned at Tommy: he glared back at him. The crows on the catwalk all watched, too. Maria was the biggest lion in the Den. 

“I ain’t got no patience today, Boy. Understand?”

Abel nodded. Maria left. Tommy set his dead sister-in-law back in the barrow. “Let’s get a move on.” He followed his wife. Abel didn’t look at him, or his mother, or the walls of men casting down at him. He pushed his mother, hot under his skin. 

They opened the gate from where Abel came. “Hope you ain’t afraid of a little walking,” Maria said. Before Abel could answer, she tossed a small box at him. He caught it, pulling out six live rifle shells. 

“Hope they fit,” she said. “Where we’re going, you never know.” 

Abel set down the wheelbarrow. “You saying you trust me?”

“No; I trust my husband,” she said. “But three years in the wilderness gotta count for something, least of all how to fire. Just keep it pointed at the right people and we won’t have a problem.”

Abel drew back the chamber, loading the rounds.

“Got it?” Maria reiterated. 

“I got it,” he said. Abel slung it across his shoulder. “How far we going?”

“The place is about a few miles, across and away from the river,” Maria said. “There’s a spot inland. We get a move on now, we should be back by dark.”

“By dark?” said Abel. “I didn’t know it was gonna take all day. I left most of my supplies at my spot.”

“It’s on the way,” Tommy gestured.

“Wait, you know where it is, too?”

“Yeah. Been there once.”

“If we’re going to stop by your place; we’re not gonna have time to dally,” Maria said. She and Tommy started walking, and Abel followed.

The distant rumble set under the canopy like a fog as the three followed the road towards the house of Abel, their steps heavy upon the earth. The leaves of the seasons would soon mulch the road with falling rain. Maria, Tommy, and Abel were prepared: their cargo was not.

“Beautiful, ain’t it?” Tommy said.

Abel hadn’t been looking more than a few feet in front of him, his chest afire and his breath visible and steamy. He looked up. He didn’t see anything but their backs, though Tommy was looking at him over his shoulder.

“It’s like the rim of the world,” Maria said. “Look, the clouds run right through ‘em.”

Abel realized what they were looking at--mountains, stretching up and over them, the tops completely obscured by soup thick precipitate.

“Oh. Yeah. It is.”

“Waking up to that view ain’t something I’d trade easily,” Tommy said. 

“You get used to it,” Abel answered. He recognized the way as just a quarter-mile from his house. “But you’re right: it’s really something.”

“You know, your mother and I used to take hikes like this,” Tommy said. 

“Wait, really?” Abel asked. “When did she… when were you two together?”

“Yes,” Maria chimed in. “When?”

“Don’t you remember?” Tommy (and therefore Abel) slowed down. “I know it’s been a while, but...you were there--we’d leave Jackson and head out towards the Den, hike an hour both ways every Sunday.”

Maria looked at Tommy, strange and unfollowing. Abel looked from her face to his Uncle’s. Tommy seemed incredulous at his wife’s expression. 

“You, me, and my sister?” She repeated slowly.

Tommy turned to the wheelbarrow. His gaze lingered. He bit his lip. “You know? I think I got that wrong.”

Abel inhaled bitter cold and expelled a burning warmth, but Maria and Tommy held back their heaviness in their chest, their breaths coming and going like tiptoes and growing louder as they resumed pace. 

“Can we switch?” Abel asked as they started.

“No,” they double-teamed him. 

“Jesus, okay,” Abelmuttered. He gulped down air and sped up. 

They reached Abel’s place a few moments later, stopping at where Tommy had found him the day before.

“Wait here,” Abel said. He left the wheelbarrow and headed up, his steps welcomingly light without its contents weighing him down. He would normally check his traps, but not today. 

Abel stepped into the old lodge. It was a relic from a world before the one he had known: there were soiled carpets and water damage on what was once a family room and kitchen. Old animal droppings were scooped out and gathered by the entrance, and nearly every window was boarded. But it wasn’t a cave, and it wasn’t a treehouse. Abel swept every now and again when he couldn’t think of anything better to do. 

Abel wiped his nose; his bag rested on the dirty countertop where he had left it behind that morning. Across the living room, his cot sat away from the windows, under the staircase. The lodge didn’t have a key or a way in if it was locked, so he relied on his traps. 

A screech ran through the house--Abel swung his revolver towards the ceiling. Two crows spied him from the rafters, then screeched again a grating CAW. Abel clicked his teeth, lowering his gun. The crows exchanged glances between themselves and Abel, conversing and bickering with each other, beating their wings at the featherless nuisance beneath them. Abel grabbed his bag and heard a jingling of metal. On the kitchen floor, next to blistered and curling linoleum, was a tin pendant.  _ Mikaya _ . Abel picked it up and turned it over in his hand. 

Abel heard the sound of beating wings. One of the crows snatched the pendant from his fingers with its beak and flew back up to the rafters. “What the fuck?” He took after it. The crows tugged at the pendant and its chain between them, both with one eye on Abel, making sure he was watching. 

When Tommy opened the front door moments later, both crows darted through the entrance, a glint of something in their beaks catching his eyes. Abel chased after them, armed with a broom. He chased them off to the trees before trudging back, his expression sour. Tommy’s face was similarly ugly.

“Fucking hate those things,” Abel said. He tossed the broom in the front door. “Sorry about that,” he answered before could Tommy say anything. “Let’s go.” 

Tommy closed the door, and they left together. 

With his bag, Abel had his fire ax, supplies for a splint, and rags. The weight was usually nominal, but the space in his less than full pack made these contents slosh around. Along with his mother’s weight, the trek towards the hills became akin to wrangling a newborn.

Abel looked down at his mother. They didn’t look the same. Neither did Jack or Tommy or Maria or Mikaya. None of them looked like Abel the way they looked like his mother; none of them looked at Abel the way they looked at her. Abel’s shadow, the specter that splayed out over her in the metal wheelbarrow, didn’t have a name. It wasn’t real: they were both dead weight and chill. That is the closest he dared to the white-hot truth. 

They continued for at least another hour. They successfully avoided or picked off rogue infected they had seen, although at one point they decided to hang back while a couple of hunters tussled with one. The infected won, then Maria shot it in the stomach. 

“So...what did I miss?” Abel asked. 

“What?” Maria asked, kicking the body off to the side. 

“While I was away? I mean, there’s the dam...anything else happened?”

“People died, and lived,” She said. “Some left Jackson. Some joined the militia. Some left the military. Things happened. Nothing new.”

“Anyone I know?”

“You remember Berta? Tall girl? Fast runner?” Tommy answered.

“...Berta? Not really.”

“Hmmm, okay. Well, she decided to head west to Los Angeles, though whether or not she made it is anyone’s guess.”

“What’s out there?”

“Who knows. Nothing we ain’t got here.” Tommy said. 

“The Ocean,” Maria said. “Berta wanted to see the Pacific. She wanted to see where her grandfather came from. 

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” Tommy recalled. “He was one of them Japanese…”

“A what?”

“Japanese. They were...well, how would you describe them?” Tommy asked his wife.

“They were a people,” Maria said, not skipping a beat. “Like us. They lived across the ocean, that body of water they taught about in class.”

“Are they still around?”

“The Japanese?” Tommy asked. “I have no idea.”

“No, not them,” said Abel. “Oceans.”

Tommy and Maria stopped dead in their tracks. They looked at Abel, his face blank, and burst into laughter. 

“Abe! Abe! Fucking  _ Christ! _ ” Maria wheezed. 

Abel set down his mother. “Okay. Don’t be a dick.”

Tommy and Maria cackled a new. They clutched at their sides, Maria leaning on her husband, desperately trying to catch her breath. Abel rolled his eyes. 

“You’re… you’re fine, kid,” Tommy choked, wiping tears from his face. He giggled and swallowed. 

“I can’t breathe… I can’t breathe…” Maria fanned herself.

“The ocean is... The ocean’s there. It ain’t goin nowhere.” 

“Lord help us if it does!”

“Oh man. I need to sit down.” Tommy squatted alongside the road, giggling like a mad man. 

Abel had almost become incensed. A morning of hangovers, falls, and humiliation put him in a mood. But Tommy and Maria, Abel saw now, had faces that opened like buds turning to bloom. 

“What does it look like?” Abel asked aloud, grinning.

“The Ocean?”

“No. Japan.”

Tommy and Maria’s glee evaporated. “Uh, well,” Maria said. “I’m… I don’t know.”

“Oh,” He said. “Is Japan still there?”

“I couldn’t say.” She answered. 

Abel nodded. “So you don’t know if Berta made it?”

“No,” Maria said. “We pointed her to the militia. Where she went beyond that…” she shrugged.

Having been an exile for three years, he could’ve gone to see the oceans, and who knows, maybe even the Japanese. But he had only stayed within the same ten miles, close enough to Jackson and the dam to hunt, kill, and steal. He looked again at the mountains, their peaks erased by the weather. He suddenly felt a deep longing to expand himself, to become like the clouds and cover the sky. Things were too small: the road wasn’t long enough to cover his waist, the forest a sweater bursting at the seams.  _ It wasn’t enough _ , he thought. He didn’t want this to be all he saw before he climbed into a wheelbarrow for someone else to drop. He didn’t want those mountains to the last best sight of this life. Who could live that way?

“Here,” Tommy said. “You’ve been carrying her long enough. Take it in for a change.”

Abel stepped aside. Tommy put his ax in the barrow and hoisted up the rear. Maria didn’t protest. “Ready?” She asked her nephew.

Abel nodded. 

“Stay alert,” she patted the butt of her rifle. Abel understood. The two walked side by side, the three of them a proper procession. 

“Is America still there?” Abel wondered aloud.

“I don’t think so,” Maria answered. “Maybe there are some Americans somewhere, but I wouldn’t know.”

“There’s the military,” he said. 

“A military don’t make a nation, Nephew,” she said. “Free folk do.”

Abel nodded, then realized he had done so out of respect. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said. He stretched his arms over his head for a nice big back pop.

* * *

Visibility was shed when the rain came. The road went soggy, mud tracking in their boots, and water soaking their clothes. Tommy’s pace had slowed, water falling, saturating, and eventually pooling on top of the blanket under his sister-in-law. Thunder crackled in the sky. 

“How much further we gotta go?” Abel asked, hunched over his hatchet. 

“Not far now!” Tommy grunted.

“Two more miles, tops!” Maria assured them.

“Okay, I just--Damn! This rain!”

“I know,” she said. “Just power through!”

“You guys hear that?” Tommy said. Abel turned back to his uncle, who had stopped moving. The three of them scanned the grey and the fog and the rain, circling around the wheelbarrow. They all heard it.  _ Infected _ .

“What’s the plan, Maria?” Tommy grabbed his ax. 

“I’m thinking we continue, but keep an eye out.”

“I won’t be able to move very fast with all this rain.”

“Can you do it?” She asked Abel.

He turned to her, then to his mother. No hand to fight or feet to run. “I don’t--no, no I can’t.”

“Maria, I got it,” Tommy said. 

“Fine, but  _ you _ ,” she said at Abel. “Stay  _ right _ on our asses, you hear me?”

“Yes Ma’am,” Abel said. He pulled out his slingshot from his pocket, his pouch of stones along his loop as it had always been. It was quieter, in case they invited more trouble. He had three stones, one for every man. He pulled out a smooth, egg-shaped one that fit perfectly in his hand: Jack.

They advanced, continuing their scans of what had become white space. Thirty feet each way. Tommy heaved the wheelbarrow, gritting his teeth. The rain continued to catch in the basin, rising up to the dead woman’s throat.

“I’m gonna need to dump the water,” Tommy said, setting the wheelbarrow down. “The blanket too. We can get it on the way back.” 

“Okay. Abel, help him with that,” Maria said. 

Abel moved over and with both hands scooped his mother into his arm and over his shoulder. Her wet embrace brought water down his back and inside his jeans. He winced and shuddered at the cold tendrils of her touch, his body running rigid.

Tommy tipped the barrow over, its fall spilling like a rapid. He leveled it again. “It’s gonna fill up again. Fast.” 

“Would it be faster to carry her?” Abel asked. His toes squished loose water in his soles. 

“It might, but it’s gonna take time to get her fastened,” Maria said. She handed Tommy his hatchet.

“I can do it,” Abel said. “I’ll need a little help, is all.” 

Abel squatted and gingerly set down his mother. “Help me out with this,” he said, fishing out the duct tape. Maria lowered beside him and took the tape. Abel slung his bag back on in front of him, pocketing the sling and the stone named Jack. 

“Put her on my back,” Abel said. Maria lifted her sister on him piggy-back style and Abel pulled at her wrists. He held them steady while she picked at and wrapped the tape around them, binding Abel’s mother around his neck.

“We’re gonna need to move,” Tommy said. He had both hands on the hatchet, staring behind him. Abel and Maria spun around, the sound of gnashing teeth advancing. Racing.

“Run. Run, Abel!” Maria said.

Abel scooped up his mother’s legs and hoisted himself up. He stumbled, heavy from the weight. ‘Running’ was going to be a slow thing. 

“Maria, cover him!” Tommy said. 

“You bring up the rear?”

“Yes, Ma’am!”

They raced, Abel surrounded on both sides by the couple. Twice, Tommy took down sprinting infected: one catch along their face, and then one along the neck. Still more cried out from the mist. They couldn’t see. 

Abel learned some time ago that fear was a body of water, a lake without a shore in sight: some days, like yesterday, he could stand up in it and only worry about the added drag getting from one place to another--some days, he needed to swim with both arms and legs, breathing as he went.  _ Gasp, blow, gasp, blow.  _ There was no way of knowing how deep that lake went, or where it led--only to cross that fear, blind, with precious cargo.

A cry snapped through the fog. Two runners rushed into view. Maria fired an arrow, taking one down from a hit through the abdomen. Tommy swung upwards, catching the second under the chin and knocking it clear through the throat. 

A third came from behind. Abel turned first to see it lunge towards him. On instinct, he lifted his leg and slammed it in the abdomen. They both fell to the ground, his mother under him. The runner was back on its feet. Abel tried to lift himself but got caught on his mother’s bonds.

Maria’s shoulder slammed the runner mid-dive, drew back the bow, and fired. “Stay on your feet,” she said, yanking him up. “Get across the river!”

Abel looked about. They were forty feet from the mouth of the churning river, animated and alive as it flowed downstream. Not far off were rapids that crowded and frothed white. He didn’t remember the last time he had crossed it. He gasped and blew.

Abel descended into the water. He yelped--a rush and gnawing cold above his knees and into his thighs. Marie and Tommy continued their work against the lungeing corpses on the bank. Abel and his mother were separated and alone. 

Abel advanced as his feet quickly grew numb. The rain continued. His mother’s toes skimmed the river surface. The other side was another thirty feet in front of him. The river was roaring, as were the infected on the shore. Tommy grunted, and Marie fired a shot from her rifle. Abel turned back to them. Their backsides flowed and quivered like lions in tattered flannel, swinging with both hands and leaning against the butt of the rifle.  _ They didn’t wave him goodbye, _ Abel thought.  _ They might not make it. _ He took a step back, nearer towards them, when an errant twig or some loose stone gave out beneath him and he and his mother disappeared beneath the river without a cry.

The shock of cold gripped at his throat and groin angrily. He gave a start, then fought the current forcing itself down his lungs as he tumbled and careened under the water. He was off-balance, his mother thrashing about his neck. Somewhere, the riverbed sailed past him; he reached out and caught a fistful of sand. 

The river spilled into rapid, crowding time into centimeters. The river and air quarreled and frothed. Abel’s mother tugged at him, this way and that, the roar of the river in his head her own, loud and everywhere, everywhere,  _ everywhere _ . The white of the stormy sky swirled past him in cold abandonment, fading and dimming. He pulled at the earth, at his mother, at the sky, trying to hold the world together and put it beneath his feet. He was beginning; he was ending, the window to life darkening and drawing shut. 

Tommy’s arm shot through the river and grabbed Abel by the collar. Through a splash and screaming incoherent, air and riverbank stung Abel’s eyes and flooded his lungs. Tommy and Maria carried him out onto the earth, shouting something. Saying something. The river roared over them. They unbound him from his mother, cutting the cord tying the two. Someone, something other than the river was screaming. Something close and uncorked and roaring. 

“Get her off him!” Maria barked soundlessly. 

“I know, I know!” said Tommy in kind. He shoved the husk off Abel, then pulled the pack, the jacket, and the flannel off him. Tommy then took off his own jacket and threw it over Abel. Tommy and Maria sandwiched him, embracing him around his neck and cradling him, rocking him back and forth, muttering things he couldn’t hear. Something was screaming, right on top of them.

Abel, upright, was swaddled by his Uncle and Aunt’s embrace, drying and warming him, wiping the river off him. Abel rattled somewhere inside his head. He looked about wildly. No wind. No demons. No hunters. No infected. The water battered his eardrums, so it was a moment before he realized he was breathing, and still long before he realized that he was screaming. 

Further down and tucked in the bend of the river, beneath white clouds that covered blue skies and a past-noon sun, Mikaya lay pinned between two larger rocks. The rapids beat against him as he swallowed up the river, waiting to be greeted in his cartoonish grin.  _ Shhhh! _ He giggled and took in the river, his sunken, eaten gaze fixed over the bend, as if in on a secret; grinning, stillborn, with more than enough to eat.

* * *

They lived, the rain giving way to early afternoon sun. They knew they had arrived when Maria spotted the shovel, standing upright ten feet from the side of the road. “This is us,” she said. 

She led Abel down the side of the road. “We’ll lead about a quarter mile that way, and bury her there. C’mon, look alive.”

Abel had taken a knee, his mother asleep and spread upon his back. Maria went on ahead. 

“C’mon, Son,” Tommy brought up the rear, his hatchet dewy and dripping, glittering in the newfound sunlight. He hoisted his nephew up. “Let’s up her to bed.” 

“Yeah,” said Abel. They stepped away from the road. 

They arrived after a few minutes. The earth was soft and uneven, and the mist had burned away: what was left was a wild green meadow, less than a stone’s throw from the hills before a pass leading someplace Abel hadn’t been. 

“Here?” Abel asked. 

“Yep. No one’s gonna disturb her out here,” Maria said. “Now we only got one shovel. Which of you strapping men wants to dig?”

No one laughed.

“Alright, guess it’ll be me, then.” She set down her effects. She broke the earth. 

Abel squatted, then set down with a plop. His mother’s embrace had held, and he eventually squirmed out from under her. Tommy laid her down and Abel rolled over before laying by her side. 

“Abel, I--” Maria was stopped by Tommy’s finger over his lips. Abel and his mother were asleep on the sopping wet earth, Abel’s stomach ebbing and flowing. Maria went back to work, the sun warm on her back.

When it came time to bury her, Tommy and Abel lowered her in a four-foot grave by her arms and legs. Abel cut her bonds. Not knowing what to do with her hands, Abel put her on her left side, her hands scooped under her head as if a pillow, or in prayer. The bullet hole in her neck looked like a mole or a welt. Abel was the last to hop out of the grave. 

“Anything anybody wanna say?” Tommy said, leaning on the shovel. Maria and Abel waited for the other to speak. “Nothing?” he asked.

“I’ll go first,” Maria said finally. “Gimme a minute.”

“Yeah, sure.” Tommy and Abel departed. 

Maria crossed her arms. She didn’t say anything right away. “Hey, Sis,” she started with a kick of dirt. She held her breath. “I’ve been keeping myself busy since you left. ‘Our work is never done,’ and all that. Your boy’s here. I didn’t think he’d make it, but I guess wonders never cease. I’m glad he came. He’s big. Really big. We could really use him. Making it through those winters seemed to have turned him into something else. Still a hassle, but something else. You did good. I’m sorry you didn’t get to see him. You did good. 

“Tommy wants to bring him back. You can probably guess how well that’d go, but...we could do a lot worse than someone who can get through winter without knocking on our door. At least he was away when it happened. And why’d you have to go and get involved with that prick anyway? That man is dead in the ground and _still_ he managed to take something from you and that boy. You ask me, Abel did you a favor putting that nigger in the ground. But I excuse one, then I’d lose the lot. Then how long would we last?”

Maria had run out of things to say, but she hadn’t run out of things. She shifted her weight. 

“Honestly, I--I wish dad was here,” she went on. “Remember when we buried mom? It was hot chocolate and sleeping in the same bed as him for a month. Lord knows where he is. Dead, definitely. Hopefully buried, though that’d be a miracle. And now you’re gone, and I--I got Tommy. He’s good, but no one’s  _ that  _ good. 

“I’m--gonna try to remember. I know we fought, too much, but I’m gonna try to remember us before all this. Before Tommy, before it all fell apart. We weren’t cut out for this, and we made ourselves cut out for this. We survived the end of the world, and kept surviving for another 20 years. We had a good run.”

Maria scooped up a handful of silt and tossed it in. “Bye, Sis.” She wrinkled her nose and blinked several times, backing away. She went to join the others. 

Tommy approached, shovel in hand. “Hey, Ness. How you doing?” He said. 

There was no answer. 

“Shit, well Tommy, that was stupid,” he said to himself. “Good thing Sam ain’t see that. Remember him? Yeah, I bet you do. Every girl remembers Sam. My dashing smuggling brother. He came by. He was gonna drop off some girl and come back. I was gonna ask him to stay. I was gonna tell you too. Knowing you, you’d need a week’s heads up. Joel woulda been good to you, you know? He seemed...I don’t know… he seemed ‘back.’ Like he was the brother I grew up with again. And you seemed back too, from when I met you. That motherfucker damn near broke you, and Abel did us all a favor. He set you free. 

“I want Abel to come back. We need all the help we can get, and that boy shoulda never been sent away in the first place. I know it’s eating him up. It’s eating me up. A man should protect his mama when she needs him. You were that boy’s mama, color aside. He loved you. I ain’t never gonna feel right tossing him out for loving you.”

Tommy looked back. Abel watched him. He turned to Ness. “Imma tell him about Darlene, too,” he said. “ I don’t care what arrangement you had with her, or why you didn’t tell him all these years, but he passed from her hands to yours, which makes him her son, too. Maybe it’ll give the boy direction if we aren’t enough. I wouldn’t blame him.”

Tommy stared down the pit, weighing his decision. “Yeah… that’ll do.” He hoisted the shovel blade over his shoulder. “Bye, Ness,” he said softly. Tommy left. 

Abel took the longest to come to her. He sat, crossed legged, and stared into her grave, fiddling with stones from his pouch. He started, but his voice was hoarse. He started again. 

“I’m twenty-three now, I think,” he said. “I haven’t really counted my days for a while, but we celebrated in the summer, and summer’s over. So I’m twenty-three.”

He stopped to tap a stone over another. “I’ve been… seeing Jack. In my dreams. We fight. Sometimes I win. Sometimes he wins… and sometimes he kills you. Those dreams make it hard to sleep.”

He lifted a stone. “These help. This one is named Jack. Sometimes I squeeze it. I’ve--I’ve done other things, too.” He set it down. “Does... _ anyone _ ...know what you have been up to? I mean, Maria and Tommy know, but is there... _ anyone _ ?”

His mother said nothing. Abel looked at the climbing mountain face, then to the valley pass, then to everything around him. At once, he was displaced, untethered, in a way that he hadn’t felt in the three years he fought the earth. That yearning that had come for him was now calling him away. 

“There isn’t anyone, is there?” Abel asked. He began to gather up his stones. He tied up his pouch, and set it aside. He closed his eyes, the sun was quiet.

* * *

Tommy finished burying Ness on the condition that Abel would roll the wheelbarrow back. They returned to the road, the sun beginning its descent. Before dark, Tommy and Maria convinced Abel to stay and eat, although Abel insisted he stay in the quarters his mother slept in for dinner. When others came in, he turned on his side, pretending to sleep. Before long, he truly was.


End file.
